


For Now My Heart Stumbles

by QuickSilverFox3



Series: Breaking The Bones of Your Heart [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28567467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: Jaskier carefully touched the vial of poison resting just over his heart—the action deliberately calculated to look wistful, as if he was remembering a past love—and considered if death was a viable option out of this situation.-After a successful hunt, of course there is only one bed left for Geralt and Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Breaking The Bones of Your Heart [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678042
Comments: 13
Kudos: 195





	For Now My Heart Stumbles

**Author's Note:**

> I know the first 'part' in this sort of series was posted in March 2020, but better late than never. Can be read as a stand-alone. ^^ This is set a couple of weeks after Geralt and Jaskier's first meeting.
> 
> For context: Jaskier is a half Witcher which Geralt doesn't know (yet ;))

Jaskier carefully touched the vial of poison resting just over his heart—the action deliberately calculated to look wistful, as if he was remembering a past love—and considered if death was a viable option out of this situation.

Their travels had been uneventful so far. Jaskier’s bruises had healed slowly, turning from a rich purple into a mottled yellow as he walked and picked at his song, complaining bitterly about the fickle fancy of his muse to an impassive Geralt as a way of passing the time. 

Jaskier had spent so much of his life being afraid. His childhood was mostly gone to the hazy fog of memory, but the acrid tang of fear in the air, lying so heavy across his tongue it threatened to choke him as he clawed at his face, was still as clear as day. Geralt should scare him. He wasn’t a born killer, but he was a forged one, melted down and remade to fight monsters—monsters like Jaskier. 

And yet…

He’d caught Geralt watching him out of the corner of his eye—fighting against the urge to let his pupils expand so he could see him better—the Witcher blurred and indistinct, but he had an odd expression on his face as if he was trying to puzzle Jaskier out. In the evening, when the fire had burnt down to a submerged glow and Jaskier was in full swing—barely aware of what he was saying, but feeling the right coils on tension in his chest relax ever so slightly—he thought he had even saw a small smile pull at the corners of Geralt’s mouth, revealing the edges of his curved fangs.

“This is the only room.”

Geralt’s voice was deliberately flat with exhaustion as he stood behind Jaskier. The bard didn’t flinch. He had sensed Geralt coming up the stairs behind him, not by the creak of the rotting wood, but by the scent of iron and smoke that clung to him. Jaskier breathed it in, let it fill his lungs and he tipped his head back to grin at Geralt, allowing himself to sway ever so slightly as he did so. 

Geralt’s eyes were half-lidded, the dim light turning his golden eyes the same shade as honey, and Jaskier’s fingers twitched with the urge to braid Geralt’s hair so his view would be unobstructed.

“Well.” Jaskier lowered his gaze back to the room, setting his hands on his hips. It wasn’t the worst room he had ever slept in, but that wasn’t saying much. 

The air was heavy with the scent of beer—almost thick enough to chew to Jaskier’s heightened sense of smell—and beneath were the scents he had grown to expect: the stale odour of sweat, with the faint tang of blood. The floor almost seemed to cling to his feet as he stepped forward into the room, Geralt following him a moment later, knocking his shoulder on the doorframe as he did so.

Jaskier watched as a trickle of sawdust fell from the ceiling, almost seeming to congeal in the mystery puddle that dominated the open floor space on the other side of the bed. “You take the bed. I can sleep on the floor.”

Geralt’s pack slowly slid from his shoulders to the floor, and Jaskier allowed himself a self-indulgent moment to consider running his hand down the same path, tracing over the curves of the muscles in his arms. The Witcher moved forward, exhaustion clear in every step, and newly forged anger burnt low in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach. Geralt deserved better than this. 

Jaskier’s song was spreading like wildfire, villagers humming the tune as Jaskier started to play even if they didn’t know the words, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. 

The villagers still drew back from Geralt when he returned—soaked to the skin and trembling from the cold, mud smeared across his face that was washed off with water from a puddle—as if they feared he would turn out to be the monster they had always heard Witchers to be. Geralt took half the pay, passing the rest to the dead man’s widow, and now they were here. 

“Y’sure?” Geralt mumbled, pulling his sword free and placing it beneath the threadbare pillows with a practiced motion that spoke of years of the habit. 

“I’m sure,” Jaskier reassured him, plastering on a smile even as he could feel the phantom aches he would soon obtain. 

Geralt looked like he wanted to argue, a frown creasing his brow for only a moment, before he collapsed onto the bed with a sigh. It was musty and damp, the scent making Jaskier bite back a reflexive gag, his skin crawling with the sensation of phantom insects, but Geralt didn’t seem to care, eyes fluttering closed. It took a moment for his breathing to settle into the slowness of sleep, and Jaskier simply watched him for a moment.

Jaskier couldn’t take the same potions Geralt could, even if he was inclined to do so. But the changes  _ fascinated _ him. 

If he was a painter, Jaskier would paint Geralt: the almost liquid sheen of his eyes like an endless night, the unnatural translucent quality to his skin, the curve of his fangs seeming all the more dramatic when he no longer cared about hiding them in the heat of battle. But Jaskier was a bard, so he hummed quietly to himself as he pulled out the sleeping roll from their packs, and spread his out on the floor, the notes twisting into discordance as he winced.

Jaskier paused, straightening up as he held his own blanket—thick wool dyed a deep green with the few holes it had developed carefully patched with embroidery. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he moved closer to the bed, studying Geralt intently. The Witcher made no motion that he was aware of Jaskier’s presence, eyes roaming beneath closed lids, so Jaskier acted before doubt could creep in, flicking the blanket out to settle it across Geralt’s shoulders.

Jaskier held his breath, a dull distant ringing in his ears, hands gone numb, as—with all the speed of a glacier—Geralt drew in a deep breath, then seemed to almost bury his face in the warm wool. Jaskier allowed himself another moment of relief on his foresight so long ago with his choice of oils and scents to replace his own lack of scent, strong enough to bestow faint traces on anything he owned. His blanket smelt like him, as much as anything would.

His good mood dipped, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, as Jaskier returned his attention to the floor with a heavy sigh that trailed off into a sibilant hiss.

⁂

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier froze, guilt washing over him like the ocean, caught in the act of turning over on the unyielding floor for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Yes?” He asked, glancing to the side and catching sight of Geralt watching him, eyes bleached to silver in the moonlight. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up. It’s just—“

Jaskier trailed off helplessly, punctuating it with a shrug. He’d slept on more comfortable ground. His limbs felt filled with electricity, restless energy bubbling up and forcing him to toss and turn in search of the one position that would soothe the rolling storm and allow him to sleep.

“Hmmm.” It was an exhalation rather than a word. Jaskier could hear the meaning beneath that simple sound, having learnt by now that it meant that Geralt was considering a plan. But there was something else, an almost uncertain note woven through the other man: a barely perceptible tensing of his shoulders; eyes darting between Jaskier and his bedroll; fingers curled into tight fists, nails digging into the meat of his palm. 

“Could—“ Geralt broke off, dropping his gaze, mouth curled into a snarl. Every muscle in his arms was tensed, a cornered animal ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. “Could share the bed. It’s big enough for two.”

Jaskier was silent, the words by which he made his living fleeing his mind. He wanted to. He wanted to agree so badly it hurt and yet… It was dangerous. This entire decision to follow a Witcher was dangerous and made in an instant because Jaskier’s heart ached for the other man. If Geralt knew what Jaskier was, knew he was an abomination and an enemy, he would kill him.

“Are you sure?” The words slipped out before Jaskier could help it, mouth working on the same instincts that led Jaskier into every bad and some good decisions he had ever made. “I could always try and see if there’s a free room now?” 

“Jaskier.” Geralt sat up, Jaskier’s blanket still pooled around his shoulders and he couldn’t deny the possessive, primal thrill that it sent through the pit of his stomach. “Just get in the bed.”

“Normally I ask for dinner first, but I’ll make an exception for you, dear.”

Geralt groaned, but Jaskier caught sight of a grin—disappearing the moment it formed—and climbed directly into the bed, dragging the blanket he had taken from Geralt’s pack with him.

The Witcher was almost impossibly warm, and Jaskier didn’t hesitate before swinging his freezing feet up, seeking that intoxicating warmth.

“Fuck!” Geralt’s hand clamped over Jaskier’s feet, pressed as they were into the meat of his thigh. 

“You’re warm!” Jaskier dared to wriggle closer, feeling Geralt’s thighs tense then relax beneath his feet, his hand trembling slightly, until the bard was finally settled.

  
  


It was an intoxicating feeling being this close to Geralt, a heady rush of adrenaline and excitement. This close, Jaskier could see the constellations of freckles that spanned his cheeks and the curve of his nose. 

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, eyes slipping closed once more even as he remained as tense as an overwound lute string. 

Jaskier wanted to stay awake, but he was warm and comfortable, and fell asleep tracing pathways between Geralt’s freckles with his eyes.

They woke in the same moment, the faint noise from below signalling the beginning of a new day, but Jaskier lay still, breathing not changing from the slow deep rhythm of sleep. His feet were still tucked onto Geralt’s thigh, held by one careful hand. Geralt’s thumb traced the jut of his ankle bone with something that almost approached wonder, hesitant and fearful of anything stronger than a featherlight touch. Jaskier had caught Geralt’s other hand at some point in his sleep, twining their fingers together tight enough that Jaskier couldn’t fully feel his fingers. 

They remained there for what felt like eternity, and Jaskier could have lain there for an eternity more, but Geralt moved. The floorboards groaned as he stood, and Jaskier breathed in the scent of iron and smoke that enveloped him as Geralt tucked his blanket more firmly around Jaskier’s shoulders. 

Jaskier dared to peak through his lashes when he thought Geralt’s back was turned and saw the Witcher draw Jaskier’s green blanket tightly around his shoulders and slip out of the door, headed downstairs for some food. Left alone, Jaskier let out a trembling breath, feeling the absence of his daggers like a wound, and curled into the warmth that Geralt had left behind, waiting for him to return.

⁂

In the next town when they were greeted by a hauntingly familiar sight: a bed that could generously be called a double; dust and muck ingrained into the floor and the echoing scratch of rats lingering just out sight, Geralt only paused for a moment before he hooked Jaskier’s pack from his shoulder and placed them both at the foot of the bed, his cheeks coloured a faint pink. 

“Stops you tossing and turning,” he said in response to the quirk of Jaskier’s head.

Jaskier’s grin only grew. 

“Well…” He tapped his chin, pretending to consider it. “You did buy me breakfast after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> [ My Tumblr!](https://inkformyblood.tumblr.com) Requests are always welcome!  
> 


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